


On the Shifting Center Line

by robocryptid



Series: On the Shifting Center Line [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Clothed Sex, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Elevator Sex, Lies, Lies as Flirting, M/M, Making Out, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Secret Identity, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, Stranger Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-02-15 19:14:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18675787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robocryptid/pseuds/robocryptid
Summary: Talon hosts another masquerade, this time for potential allies and recruitment. Hanzo decides to investigate his options. He doesn't get much out of the party, but he does find a charming stranger to pass the time with.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CorvidFightClub](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorvidFightClub/gifts).



> For Corvid, who deserves nice things and gave me a _very_ fun prompt to work with. He asked for the Talon masquerade setup and inspired the costume choices.

There are omnics at the door who wave him through with only a cursory check. He has no doubt they have some way to account for his identity even with the mask and allegedly anonymized party invitation. It does not matter. He has killed every assassin his family has sent after him; he doubts they will manage anything here.

Still, he adjusts his cufflinks and discreetly checks the blades tucked up his sleeves to reassure himself. It has been some time since he willingly mingled with this kind of crowd. No bounty to seek out here, no attack to plan. Only a potential alliance to investigate, and perhaps a party to enjoy.

Beyond the door, it is a mixed crowd. They mill about in a clash of fashions and colors, flashy cybernetics and vivid neons. There are a small minority dressed more like him in comparatively subdued, traditional formal wear, although his suit does have some flair. Atop his pale gray vest is another, black with elaborate gold embroidery. It would be garish on its own, but set underneath his black suit jacket, it’s only a polite nod to the theatrics of the occasion.

There are dozens of simple domino masks, most of them black, but most of the partygoers appear to have embraced the theme. There are elaborate headdresses, with and without cybernetics, the rare, memorable hard light masks, and omnics whose face plates have almost certainly been changed for the occasion, engraved and welded and gleaming, all in wild geometric shapes.

Hanzo’s is only a step up from the domino masks, certainly nothing as outlandish as the many omnics in attendance. A dragon would have been too on the nose, and would make him even easier to spot should Ogundimu seek him out personally, so tonight he is a wolf instead.

The party is hosted by Ogundimu himself, so Hanzo expects him to be busy for most of it. Ample opportunity to find out what he can about Talon’s other allies and those they are courting.

Most of the crowd appear to be politicians and wealthy socialites. He is reasonably certain more than a few have bounties he’s considered hunting; he’s just as certain that more than a few are sponsors of bounties he has already collected. They move as if they think they are the predators, although there are some who are clearly here for the social event, who have already begun to drink in earnest.

Hanzo takes a glass of champagne from a nearby waiter. As he gets a feel for the room, the real predators become obvious.

Thirty feet from him, there’s a slim, pale woman in a lace mask and a dress with a distractingly plunging neckline. She could almost be one of the socialites, but she’s only pretending to drink, and there’s an edge to her bored affect that is suggestive of a snake coiling to strike. In one of the clusters of people to his left is a person of indeterminate gender whose movements are too razor sharp. To his right is an omnic who Hanzo can practically hear scanning and recording the guests from here.

Across the room is a tall, bearded man who Hanzo almost overlooks on the first pass. His suit, though well-fitted, is not particularly noteworthy. His sole concessions to the event are a plain black domino mask and a short red cape, draped to one side and just long enough to obscure his left arm.

It is bland and uncreative, just shy of sloppy, and the sort of thing Hanzo might wear if he were attempting to look like the kind of person who only decided to attend at the last possible moment. There are other men here who look much the same, but they do not watch the crowd as closely as this one does, and they do not move with the loose, bone-deep confidence of a person aware of what their body is capable of. Unlike the others, this one notices him looking.

Somehow in his gut he knows this stranger recognizes Hanzo for what he is in the same way Hanzo recognized him. It isn’t surprising exactly; if Talon is courting others, then some of those are bound to be on the lookout for their own kind. What _is_ surprising is the tiny thrill that hits him, a static shock when their eyes meet. Caught, Hanzo acknowledges him with the slightest nod and a careful, conspiratorial smile, and the stranger responds by raising his glass. Hanzo is sure that he winks.

The moment passes, and Hanzo moves on. He has not yet finished his survey of the party. He circles the edges, and he does his best to stay aware of the stranger’s whereabouts. Hanzo does not think he is a threat, at least not this particular evening, but he is not so sure he’s willing to let himself forget.

He sees Ogundimu too. He’s hard to miss, towering over so many in the crowd and strikingly handsome in his white suit. He is the only one in the room whose “mask” is painted directly onto his face, a brilliant red that matches the rose pinned to his lapel. It is simple but effective, and Hanzo is grateful for it; it makes him easy to find in the crowd, and thus easy to avoid.

He’s been here nearly two hours and accounted for at least a dozen potential candidates like himself. He recognizes four of them from bounties he’s looked over but not taken on. Some of them have already left, having made up their minds. Ogundimu has been clever in approaching the others, picking them out one by one.

There’s a moment where Hanzo considers that he too should leave, and this is of course when Ogundimu finally spots him. He assumed his presence at this party was noted at the door, but Hanzo evaded him long enough that he supposes he got overconfident. Hanzo pretends not to know he’s been seen, but Ogundimu nonetheless politely extracts himself from an oily group of politicians in order to head his way.

He feels the presence behind him and is already turning when a low, pleasant voice says, “Good evenin’.” It’s the stranger from before, with a smile that manages to be sharp-edged and inviting at once.

“Good evening,” Hanzo echoes.

“Maybe this is a little forward of me, but I’ve been itchin’ to get you on the dancefloor all night.”

Hanzo stares and wonders if this man knows that he’s also offering an excuse to put off Ogundimu. The timing is too perfect. But he has no desire to give an answer to Talon yet nor to be pestered for one. “I happen to appreciate ‘forward’.”

They leave their glasses with one of the servers and take their places among the crowd of dancers. The hand that settles at Hanzo’s hip feels odd compared to the one held in his own; it takes a moment before he realizes it’s a prosthetic. He crosses several suspects off his mental roster.

“Hope you don’t mind my sayin’, but you were lookin’ a little unenthusiastic back there.”

He is grateful for the mask to hide the way his eyebrows shoot up. “Do I not get the luxury of an introduction before you pry?”

The stranger laughs. “You’re right, I’m getting ahead of myself. Name’s Clint. And you are?”

A cowboy’s name for a cowboy’s accent. Hanzo smirks and answers, “Toshiro.”

Hanzo wonders if he understood the joke. From the amused twist of his mouth, he seems to at least know Hanzo’s lying. He may have even expected it. “Name and accent like that, lemme guess. You’re from Japan?”

“Yes. And you are from the United States.”

“Texas, born and raised.” They fall silent for a moment, and Hanzo is unsure who is leading their dance. “Clint” barely misses stepping on his foot and mutters an apology under his breath. Once they have regained their footing, he’s pulled Hanzo significantly closer. It’s difficult to say whether it was truly an accident or not, but each option is charming in its own way.

“What is it you do for a living?” Hanzo asks.

“I happen to be one of the last living oil tycoons, among other things.” The smile he flashes dares Hanzo to challenge him on the story, and Hanzo surprises himself by laughing outright. “How ’bout you?”

“I’m afraid it is much more boring. Investment banking, among other things.”

That gets a low, warm laugh that Hanzo feels in his chest. It also makes Clint’s eyes light up, and although Hanzo cannot see his whole face, he is suddenly sure this stranger is very handsome. “Alright, I’m also 41, a Capricorn, and I absolutely hate apple pie.” All three are lies, and Hanzo gets the distinct impression this stranger wants him to know that. “You think we know each other well enough now I can ask what had you squirmin’ back there?”

“You were right about being forward.”

“You said you appreciated that. You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”

“Never,” Hanzo answers as solemnly as he can. He weighs his options, but it does not seem a terrible risk to tell him some partial truth. “If you must know, I have two suitors whose advances I am not yet ready to answer, and one of them is here tonight.”

Hanzo would not notice if he were not looking for a reaction, but Clint hesitates just a beat too long while he processes. “Well, if I’d known there was competition, I wouldn’t’ve wasted so much time before askin’ you to dance.” He seems to think this is as good an excuse as any to inch a little closer. “Would you believe me if I told you I’m in a similar position?”

“Of course. You seem like a very honest man. To a fault, really.” The grin Hanzo receives is wolfish enough to merit swapping masks. It also makes something warm unfurl inside him. “I do not wish to be tied down by either. It seems I have enjoyed my freedom for too long.”

“A man after my own heart.” His voice rumbles low in his chest. They’re so close now that Hanzo can no longer look at him, so he closes the distance to press them flush together. This stranger’s body feels as solid as it looks, and while Hanzo does not feel a weapon on him from this position, he has no doubt he’s armed somehow. He smirks to himself when he feels the prosthetic hand slide from his hip to his back, before it settles again just above his tailbone. It is perhaps the most pleasant way he’s ever been checked for weapons.

“I am flattered by the attention, but I’m curious: what made you seek me out?”

There’s that laugh again, this time near Hanzo’s ear. “Maybe I just thought we’d look good together. You know, me with my red cape and you in that mask.”

“In every version of that tale I have heard, it’s the wolf who does the pursuing.”

“In every version I’ve heard, Red’s a little girl. Consider it a loose adaptation. But if you wanna try to swallow me whole, I won’t complain.”

It’s as shameless as his smile, and Hanzo wants to laugh but is surprised by how appealing the idea is now that it’s been planted. “How long have you been waiting to use that line?”

“Since about two seconds after I saw that shoulder-to-waist ratio.”

There are more compliments after that, murmured low and sweetly into his ear, about his eyes and mouth and the cheekbones visible just below the edge of his mask. Those lips are so close that they brush his ear with every word, and it grows more and more difficult to suppress the shudder his body wants to give. Clint may be a liar, but his desire is honest enough, and it has been some time since Hanzo’s met anyone genuinely intriguing.

It’s obvious he knows the effect his voice has; Hanzo’s almost positive the lips against his ear are curled into a smirk. His fingers spread wider on Hanzo’s back, digging into the layers of fabric. Then he asks, “Wanna step outside with me? I could use the fresh air, but I’m afraid to lose you to one of those suitors you mentioned.”

Hanzo decides to go along with it. When he manages to glance back at the dancefloor, Ogundimu is standing where they left. Perhaps it should concern him that this stranger is so observant, but so far he only seems to have used it to flirt.

Besides, Hanzo’s bounty is not so high. His family want the honor of killing him themselves, and he has not revealed himself often enough to make many enemies who know who he is. If this man is a bounty hunter, he has picked one of the least lucrative targets in attendance. It is a more likely conclusion that he quite sincerely wants in Hanzo’s pants.

Out on one of the floor’s several balconies, it is cool enough to justify their multiple layers. He chooses to trust that this stranger wants little more than a pleasant evening and will conspire to keep Talon at bay if it means reaching that goal. Hanzo takes the next drink the servers bring by, and he lets himself relax.

Just as he was while dancing, Clint is a magnetic liar. He stands a hair too close even now, and even with a mask to hide part of his face, his eyes are easy to read, gaze moving hot and hungry over Hanzo’s lips when he speaks, over his hands when he gestures, over the rest of his body in moments of quiet. The attention might be overwhelming some other time, without the blatantly false identities and the masks between them. As it is, it leaves a quiet, anticipatory hum under his skin, makes him feel warm all over.

It becomes an unspoken game to move discreetly any time either of them spots Ogundimu, and every time they stop again, they are that much nearer to one another, occupying the same space and making thinly veiled excuses to touch. It’s no surprise to realize he’s been steadily, carefully ushered farther and farther from the crowds, to realize how quiet this other balcony is. It’s more dimly lit here too, most of the light filtering from under the heavy curtains over the closed door or up from the city below.

For the briefest moment, he considers that he may have been wrong. That this stranger may wish him harm. But even in the half light, it’s obvious that if his gaze is at all predatory, it’s of an entirely different kind.

“It seems we are alone out here,” Hanzo says. “Quite a coincidence.”

He’s expecting a laugh or a smile, but it’s a smirk at best, followed by a thoughtful noise and a heavy-lidded look from head to toe. “If it ain’t obvious yet that I’ve been workin’ to get you alone all night, I’m doin’ something wrong.”

Hanzo considers making another joke, but they’ve been flirting all evening. There’s little to accomplish here with more talk. “Give me that.” He gestures for Clint’s drink, then sets both their glasses aside. “I am going to kiss you n—”

He’s cut off by the way he’s jerked forward and by the mouth that crashes down onto his. It’s startling how quickly the carefully curated desire surges into something sharp-fanged and just shy of devastating. He gasps at the press of their lips, at the tongue that sweeps into his mouth, at the cold shock of the wall against his back.

He expects it to lose momentum after the initial surprise, and it does, but only after his mouth’s already been thoroughly worked over. Thumbs stroke along either side of his jaw, holding him carefully in place as the kisses grow slower but no less overwhelming. For the first time this evening, he wonders what it would be like to actually _know_ this man. It’s a dangerous thought, more so than any physical threat he might yet pose, but it settles in and takes root somewhere typically left fallow.

Hanzo pulls him closer anyway. He can tangle with his demons later. Right now he wants to feel the pressure of someone else surrounding him and the flutter of abdominal muscles beneath his hands.

He opens the tuxedo jacket and pulls the stranger’s shirt free of his trousers, then finally presses his fingers to hot skin. His earlier suspicions prove correct: he finds a knife inside the jacket and a gun holster, the lump of it cleverly hidden by the cape. He smirks into the kiss, and he lets his hands move on. Cataloging threats comes naturally to him, but nothing about this man suggests he’d let Hanzo touch his weapons if he were planning to use them.

It means Hanzo can let himself get lost in this, for better and worse. His fingers shake with the force of his want, fumbling over the clasp of the stranger’s belt.

Something must snap again, because the fingers disappear from his jaw and those hands are all over him, grasping and petting wherever they can. Over clothes or under does not seem to matter much. Hanzo tips his head back and there’s a mouth at his throat immediately, breath and beard brushing softly over his skin.

His head spins with it, so much so that he’s almost surprised to realize _he’s_ been spun around, pushed toward the balcony’s edge with the stranger’s hot presence at his back, his hands on Hanzo’s neck and hip. He shivers at the hard line of a cock pressed against the meat of his ass, and he braces himself against the railing, one hand reaching back to clasp at whatever part of this man he can reach.

The ground is far below him, dizzying if he looks for too long. Hanzo can think of a dozen ways to kill someone in his own position, and it should make him wary, but he doesn’t have it in him, not with teeth scraping the back of his neck and hands shoving his trousers down just enough to expose his ass to the cool night air.

He goes still when he feels the hand on his ass and the cock that slides into and up the crease, ending with the head bumping over his tailbone. He shivers, with the cold or the electric thrum under his skin, it doesn’t matter. A hot thumb pulls his cheeks apart, nestles that cock more snugly between them, and the stranger gives a few slow, teasing thrusts, leaving a sticky smear of precome to cool on Hanzo’s skin.

His own cock is achingly hard, straining for attention, but when he reaches for it, metal fingers close around his and shove his hand hard against the railing. “I’ll take care of you, darlin’, don’t you worry.” His voice is lower than before and rough with desire. “I came prepared, if that’s what you want.” Hanzo breathes out harsh through his nose. “Can make it real good for you. Want me to fuck you?”

“Yes.” His answer is immediate, and he hardly sounds like himself.

The chuckle in his ear is smug. “Say please.”

“ _Please_.” This one feels like it’s ripped free from a place he did not know existed, like his mouth and body decided before his brain did. He has never before submitted so readily to another person, and he flushes hot all over.

There’s no need or even time for his embarrassment though. The weight behind him shifts and dry fingers rub down his crack to pet at his rim, circling slow and distracting while Clint rifles through his own pockets with the other hand. The fingers disappear and return, this time coated in lube, and they make another insistent circle around his rim before they push in.

He lets out a breathless laugh and curls his weight forward. It’s like his body has decided exactly what it wants even before he has, because it’s almost alarming how quickly he adjusts, relaxes and turns complacent. It’s almost enough on its own, and it takes no time at all for him to try to rock back, fuck himself to completion on a couple thick fingers buried to the knuckle inside him.

The stranger even indulges him for a moment, laughing against his ear again before scraping his teeth along the shell of it. “You always take it like this, or am I special?”

It’s the sort of question that would typically either irritate him or bring him some shame to attempt to answer, but tonight he still has his mask. There is no one he has to perform for, because he can be anyone he wishes. And there _is_ something about this particular man that’s busy finding tiny cracks in his walls. “It’s you,” he says through a throat that’s scraped dry from his shuddery breathing. He clenches his fingers along the railing and bites down on a groan. “Do you always need your ego stroked this much?”

“Asks the man who’s been swoonin’ over my compliments all night long.” It’s teasing, affectionate in a way that feels too familiar for having only known each other a few hours. Like Hanzo’s not the only one feeling more affected than usual. He presses a kiss to Hanzo’s temple. “I got a feeling tonight’s gonna be keepin’ me warm for a long time. Be sweet and gimme somethin’ to think about.”

It’s funny in that too-affectionate way, and it provides a good distraction from the sudden absence of his fingers. There’s not much time to mourn the loss before there’s the sound of foil tearing then the head of his cock is pressing against Hanzo’s entrance, then slowly but insistently pushing in.

He has to fight not to hold his breath. He should have taken better stock of what he’d be working with before he agreed to this, because now he’s suspended between the competing urges to push back or scramble away. The stretch is maddening, sharp even after the thorough preparation. A metal hand pets soothingly along his side, and the organic fingers are tracing his rim again, smearing more lube there. It’s almost too much, and the moment he thinks that is the moment it suddenly gets easier, the rest of the slide smooth.

He pushes backward, ass flush against hips. The stranger drapes his weight against Hanzo’s back, lips at his throat again, and he slowly begins to move.

At first it’s a slow rocking, the movement of the cock inside him more soft nudges than anything. It lets him luxuriate in that feeling of fullness, in the small sensations like the cold air and hot hand and bunching fabric against his exposed skin.

Then the stranger’s rearing back, metal hand spreading Hanzo’s ass cheek wider as if that will get him that little bit deeper. But his hands are too restless to stay long, sliding over ass and hips, up under his shirt to skate over ribs and across his stomach. They pull at him, tug him into place and make minor adjustments, but it seems more likely they’re trying to map Hanzo out and memorize him.

Like before, everything that they build in a gradual wave comes inevitably to a crest and crashes hard. This time it comes when the angle drags a moan from deep within Hanzo’s chest. There’s a quiet, breathless laugh behind him, then Clint’s fucking him in earnest, sharp snaps of his hips a shocking contrast to the gentleness before.

He does his best to give as good as he gets, but he’s manhandled and maneuvered into place until he’s practically boneless and it’s all he can do to stay upright, knuckles white on the railing while this stranger drives into him, metal hand curled at the base of his throat and the other finally wrapping around his cock to jerk him off. It is relentless and breathtaking, and Hanzo’s so overwhelmed he can feel tears forming in the corners of his eyes. It actually stuns him when he comes, rolls over him so quickly he doesn’t know how to do more than cling to the railing and try not to fall.

If anything, it only makes Clint fuck him faster, quick and shallow until he’s brought himself off, pushing in on one last deep thrust.

Hanzo stays bent over for a moment, bearing as much of both their weight as he can stand, but he can feel his muscles straining, his legs in particular threatening to give out.

The stranger eventually rallies, and with a final kiss to the back of Hanzo’s neck, sets about carefully extricating himself and cleaning them both up the best that he can.

It is, for the first time all evening, awkward. A quiet hangs between them for a moment, then Clint, having done up his pants already, drops to the floor with a heavy sigh. He still looks a little dazed, and there’s something comfortingly human about that. Hanzo sinks to his knees beside him, and he is grateful to the intensity of his training that he manages to do so with some measure of grace.

He’s pulled in immediately for a kiss, this one sweeter and more chaste than before. As he pulls away, Clint’s eyes are still closed. When he opens them, they’re searching Hanzo’s face and he asks, “Any chance you’re gonna give me a real name, darlin’?”

“Is this you trying to tell me you do _not_ share a name with two famous cowboy actors?”

Clint flashes him another one of his brilliant grins, and he does not answer. After a moment he grows more solemn. “You still thinkin’ of joining these jokers?” He smirks, but this one doesn’t make it to his eyes. “I’m sorry, I mean accepting this suitor.”

Hanzo chews on it, but he determines this answer cannot hurt. “I do not think so. That you distracted me so easily speaks volumes about either you or them, but I suspect it may be both.”

He gets another of those grins for his troubles. “Yeah, not sure it’s really my speed. Might not be so bad if I got to see you sittin’ at the conference table. Don’t blame ’em for trying so hard.” Hanzo snorts and does not point out the obvious: that this man has yet to even see his whole face. Clint catches his lip between his teeth, clearly weighing something, then he tugs a pen and small spiral bound book from the depths of his jacket. There’s something entirely too charming about knowing he keeps a real paper notepad on his person. He scribbles on one of the pages, then tears it off and gives it to Hanzo. “I’d appreciate you keepin’ that to yourself. I know you’re considering your options, and I don’t expect a man you just met to factor into any of that. But if you find you wanna stay a free agent, maybe you can get some use outta that. If not,” he laughs and his smile turns sly again, “it’ll be okay. I was right that tonight’s gonna stick with me a good long while.”

Hanzo tucks the slip of paper carefully into his vest pocket, then they kiss again, lazy and soft. Heat stirs in his belly again, but the feeling has no urgency to it. He certainly could not go another round so soon, and they will eventually have to make their way back before the party is over. Hanzo breaks the kiss with a smile. “Should I remain a free agent, I will put this to good use.”

It is enough for now, for the both of them.

He got more from the evening than he ever expected to, and he makes his way back through the party and to his hotel room feeling lighter than he has in a long time.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, he checks his secure email to find he’s been sent a list of potential jobs in the area. At the very top of the list is a man with a bounty of sixty million USD. He raises his eyebrows at the payout and pulls up the picture. He doodles over the man’s face, gives him a simple domino mask, then he laughs and rejects the job.

He’s no closer to a decision on the offer his brother made him, but at least he has a name to put to the phone number burning a hole in his pocket.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, I gave it a second chapter.
> 
> YourAverageJoke's birthday was a few days ago. This was supposed to arrive on that day, but better late than never, I guess!
> 
> Update: Now this chapter has fan art too, again by the awesome [MIAnewarcher](https://twitter.com/MIAnewarcher). Find it [on Twitter here](https://twitter.com/MIAnewarcher/status/1131698718565117952).

The business is styled more like an old-fashioned gentlemen’s club than a contemporary nightclub. It is the sort of place wealthy elites come to indulge their vices. Nearly a quarter of those who at first appear to be clientele are, on second glance, more likely working, offering a variety of discreet services to guests looking for company.

Hanzo’s target is here, slouching at a booth table in the corner with his hand on the sleek thigh of a woman half his age. From the way she hangs on the mark’s every word, he suspects she has been paid well for her time.

For now, the bar is more interesting. It provides a good vantage from which to watch the mark, but of equal importance, another sort of target sits right at the end.

Hanzo stands at the bar very close to the stranger, whose eyes he can feel shift his way when he orders a drink. While the bartender goes to pour, he settles a hand on the stool’s high backrest. “Is this seat taken?” he asks. There are plenty of empty seats at the bar; the move is not subtle, but he didn’t want it to be.

He watches the man give him a shameless once over. “It’s all yours. Only ’cause you have good taste in whiskey, though.”

Hanzo makes himself relax into a smile. “I’m grateful you approve.” He gets a smirk in return, although the arrival of his drink briefly interrupts their flirting. “You are not from around here.”

“Neither are you, I’d guess.” It’s been two months, but Jesse McCree has the same effect he had the first time around. Hanzo finds his attention gratifying, but especially so now that his face is fully visible and McCree’s appreciation persists. “Have we met before?”

He laughs. “Not in any official capacity.”

“Don’t think I could forget a face like yours. Must not have gotten a very good look.”

There’s the urge to preen again, to bask in the feel of McCree’s eyes on him. “You didn’t. At the time, that was the point.”

There’s a pause while McCree considers that answer, then he lets out a short, breathy laugh that hits harder than it probably should. Hanzo has heard it before in a context that still makes his pulse spike to think about. “Most guys woulda just called instead of showin’ up while I’m working.”

“I am not most guys.”

That gets a snort. “No kiddin’.” He doesn’t seem upset, but something about his demeanor tells Hanzo he may be slightly put off by this approach.

“And I may have… lost the number.” McCree looks at him more fully then. “Shortly after. I had to leave a job in a rush.”

McCree’s laugh is more open this time. “Guess that’s a hazard of goin’ analog.” He relaxes further and is leaning closer, so Hanzo figures he’s been forgiven for the unintended slight. “So what’re you doin’ here besides makin’ my night better?”

“Working.”

“Mm, that’s unfortunate.”

“And why is that?”

“Well, because I’m damn good at what I do. Don’t think you’re gonna get to cash this one in.”

Hanzo laughs mostly out of surprise. “Does this make you his protection or my competition?”

“If you’re here, you saw his file. Like hell am I protectin’ a man like that.”

“So you would rather compete with me than spend a pleasant evening together? I am wounded.”

After waiting so long to contact him, Hanzo expected he might have to put in more work than the last time, but that assumption didn’t fully prepare him for the nerves he feels while he watches McCree mull it over. He does not sigh in relief when McCree’s response remains lightweight, but it is a very near thing. “I’m sure whatever you got planned is worth missin’ out on four million dollars, sweetheart, but I promised results and I’m a man of my word.”

“You misunderstand me.” There’s something satisfying about the way McCree’s eyebrows shoot up. “I am suggesting that our pleasant evening only causes you to miss out on two million.”

The look McCree gives him would set his heart racing if it wasn’t already. “You wanna work together?”

“I want to see what you are capable of. And I am sure we have both taken much higher payouts before. This isn’t about money for you, is it?”

He looks impressed, like he did not expect Hanzo to guess at that. Or perhaps like he hoped Hanzo _would_ guess. “Would still be the most expensive date I’ve ever been on.”

“You act as though I would not also be giving up half.” McCree laughs at him like he cannot quite help himself. Hanzo could be annoyed by the implication that McCree imagines himself the better player, but it is by design that he does not know who Hanzo is, so it’s difficult to summon any real offense. Instead it has the opposite effect; McCree’s confidence already proved well-earned in one regard, so perhaps his cockiness here is only a fair measure of his prowess. Hanzo is sure nobody gets to be worth sixty million USD without being quite dangerous. “We could add to the deal if you like.” Hanzo makes his smile as wicked as possible, and McCree’s posture visibly straightens.

“What’re you thinkin’?”

“Whoever actually finishes the job is the winner. The loser has to — how did you put it? Try to swallow him whole?”

Although he does not like to waste time circling around the point, he is still not often so frank in his pursuits. He wonders why not, when this time results in a slow sweep of McCree’s eyes down his body and an even slower grin. “Not much incentive for me to win then, is there?”

He feels his cheeks heat up. It isn’t born of embarrassment, but he knows he is flushed anyway. McCree’s smile remains firmly in place while they flirt and sip carefully at their watered down drinks, and they bide their time watching the mark.

McCree surely suspects by now that Hanzo knows who he is, but he never outright offers a name, and neither does he ask for one in return. Hanzo wonders if it is part of the appeal; it certainly was the first time. They each lean nearer into the other’s space as they relax, and he rests a hand on McCree’s thigh that slowly climbs as the night wears on. It is nothing obscene here where anyone could see, but it makes him feel smugly thrilled every time McCree’s legs inch farther apart.

When the mark finally moves, McCree tries to pay their bar tab until Hanzo smirks and reminds him that he has already cost McCree enough money this evening.

Once they have given the man and his date enough time to believe they aren’t being trailed, they follow. The mark is easy to keep up with, drunk as he is with a pretty woman on his arm, and even easier with a partner to play off. Their flirting is already genuine, so using it as a disguise comes effortlessly.

More than once the woman peers back at them, more alert than her inebriated client, but in those moments McCree plays drunk and paws playfully at Hanzo.

The streets are more crowded where they are going, and just once they both lose sight of their target. When they can’t find him in the crowd, they check the side alleys. In the third, they find his still-warm body. The woman is nowhere to be seen, but there are no signs of struggle except the faint scuffing on his expensive leather shoes.

“Looks like we got scooped,” McCree says. He doesn’t sound too upset. “By his date, probably.”

“Indeed. That was… unexpected.”

“You disappointed?”

“I was looking forward to seeing you work.”

McCree smirks in the low light. “I was looking forward to blowin’ you.”

He feels that warm, pleased flush again, and he has to search to find something to say in the face of McCree’s boldness. “I would hate for the evening to be a complete letdown.”

McCree’s laugh is low and suggestive enough to make his skin prickle. They leave the body in the alley, and McCree takes the lead. He tells Hanzo he has been to this place before, and he remembers a few things; Hanzo wonders if he always offers information so freely, or if he assumes Hanzo could figure it out on his own if he already knows who McCree is, or if he has some other, more personal motivation.

Where they end their journey is not his hotel, and he suspects it is not McCree’s either. If it is, McCree still goes out of his way to pay for a new room.

He doesn’t get time to wonder if that holds any meaning. The elevator doors close and the car begins its ascent. Then McCree holds his eye, throws him a wink, and finds the stop button.

There’s little time to adjust to the idea that this is _going_ to happen before it actually does. McCree is on him as suddenly as the time before. He’s sandwiched between the mirrored wall and a solid body, and he barely thinks to tip his head up before McCree’s mouth crashes down onto his.

All that was simmering beneath the surface before rises to a boil that he can feel in his veins. McCree’s hands are everywhere, all at once, fisting in his clothing and clutching at his body. He’s never been kissed quite like this before; not that he’s never been kissed with enthusiasm, but McCree puts his entire body into it, hunching down into his space and refusing to give an inch, thorough, hungry, with no holds barred.

Rough hands dive for the buttons of his suit jacket, then they ruck up his shirt and skate underneath, fingers digging hard into obliques. He reaches out blindly, and he gets a particularly enthusiastic sound in response when he breaks the kiss with a rough yank on McCree’s hair.

McCree’s mouth is wet and red, pulled into a challenging smirk to match his heavy-lidded eyes.

“I thought you wanted to blow me.” Hanzo’s voice is nearly a growl even to his own ears, and McCree’s smile widens.

He doesn’t need further encouragement. He slides to his knees with Hanzo’s hand still curled in his hair. Mouthing wetly at any skin he finds exposed, he makes quick work of Hanzo’s belt and fly.

For the second time since they met, McCree undresses him only as far as he needs to in order to get at what he wants. The reflective metal at Hanzo’s back is cold against his bare ass, but McCree’s mouth is hot and distracting, his beard scraping softly and his breath gusting over the damp spots his open-mouthed kisses have left on Hanzo’s skin.

Then McCree’s hand is holding Hanzo’s cock steady and his lips parting around the crown, and Hanzo cannot be sure if it’s the sight or the sensation that drags the shaky sigh out of him. McCree’s other hand hooks into the waistband of Hanzo’s pants, cool metal warming against his thigh. At first he can only tip his head back and shut his eyes, nearly startled by the reminder of how good this can feel.

The last time he slept with anyone it was with McCree two months prior, and McCree so obviously loves what he’s doing; the moans coming from him make it sound like he’s getting more out of this than Hanzo is. These facts combined ensure that he will not last long.

He does not want to miss anything then.

He forces himself to open his eyes and look down, to untangle his hand only to push McCree’s hair more fully out of his face. His eyes are closed, lashes wet and trembling with every zealous downward slide of his slick mouth.

Hanzo can’t help the way his hips jerk forward off the wall, but McCree seems unfazed anyhow. There’s no break to his rhythm, but he takes his hand off Hanzo’s cock so he can screw his mouth down farther. His fingers creep around Hanzo’s hip to his ass, digging slowly into the muscle there and then releasing, inching ever closer to the center.

Neither can Hanzo help the way his touch gentles in McCree’s hair or the way his other hand slides down to cup at his jaw, feeling it work with every eager movement of his mouth. McCree’s hand finally reaches its destination and he slides his fingers into the crack of Hanzo’s ass.

He’s struck suddenly with too many stimuli: McCree’s wet mouth around his cock, his eyes finally opening to meet Hanzo’s gaze with pupils blown wide, the way he almost manages to smirk with his mouth full. His fingers slip into the crack and spread Hanzo’s ass cheeks wider, and that last brings with it the memory of McCree teasing him before, cock sliding along the crease before he finally fucked Hanzo so well he had to seek McCree out for more.

All these work together to flood him at once with too much heat and that shivering electric feeling. He tries to give warning, to tug at McCree’s hair or force his hips backwards, but McCree moves with him, grip tightening to pull Hanzo right back to him as his mouth grinds forcefully down. His throat opens and his lips dive all the way to the base of Hanzo’s cock, his nose pressed into the short dark hairs, and Hanzo can’t even breathe any longer.

When he comes, it’s with a groan and a tremor that feels like it started down in his toes. McCree swallows it all, and he holds Hanzo steady when it’s over, mouthing again at his hips and stomach, at any exposed flesh he can find. When Hanzo’s recovered enough to comprehend his surroundings again, he realizes McCree’s got one hand down his pants, roughly jerking himself off.

“Don’t,” is all Hanzo can manage to say, and even that creaks out of his dry throat.

McCree makes a sound that isn’t quite a whimper, but his hand stops. They have a hotel room. They only need to let the elevator continue on. It would take a couple minutes at most.

Hanzo doesn’t care.

He gives McCree a gentle push until he’s backed up, still on his knees, then he crawls down to meet him and sucks him off on the elevator floor. He’s out of practice and he’s sure it’s sloppy, but McCree doesn’t seem to mind; he’s so ready to go off that finesse would be wasted here anyway.

When he’s finished, McCree drags him up by the collar of his shirt to kiss him, messily licking the taste of himself from Hanzo’s mouth in a move that feels like he’s trying to say thank you. It’s heady and leaves him with a slow swirling heat in his gut, not unlike the whiskey they had earlier.

He breaks the kiss on a laugh, and McCree laughs with him, both of them giddy and perhaps a little stupid with the release.

Coming down from it now, it becomes difficult to ignore that his knees are protesting the hard flooring, the thin carpet doing little to hide that there is solid metal underneath. It is harder still to ignore that they are half clothed in a stopped elevator, and unlikely to be able to hide what they’ve been doing.

“We should—” he starts, fumbling between them for his belt.

“Yeah.” McCree lets out a breathy sound that is neither laugh nor sigh, but caught somewhere between.

They each adjust their own clothing. Put themselves back together. The silence is uncomfortable, just like the last time. It seems neither of them are especially good in the aftermath.

After he has helped McCree to his feet, he wonders what comes next. Wonders whether he should say his goodbye here or whether this is meant to continue. “It would—” he says, at the same time that McCree asks, “Do you—?”

They both laugh again, and there’s a funny comfort in the knowledge that he is not alone in his sudden bout of nerves. “You first,” he says.

McCree clears his throat. “Do you still wanna come up to the room?”

“Yes.” He tries to keep the full extent of his relief from his voice, but from the almost self-conscious tilt of McCree’s smile, he is not sure he succeeded.

McCree pulls aside the panel he used to stop the elevator before, fiddles with it for a moment, then he pushes their floor number and the cart lurches upward again. “What were you gonna say?”

“That it would be a waste of your money if we did not get any use out of the room.”

McCree’s laugh is louder and brighter this time. “Good lookin’ out.”

They spend the rest of the short journey in silence, albeit a much more comfortable one than before. McCree gets the door open with a key card, but Hanzo is the first inside. He drags McCree in with him, aiming immediately for the bed.

Their clothes come off quickly, and Hanzo almost regrets that he did not stop to turn the lights on, but there is enough of a glow coming through the curtains that he can make out McCree’s body. It is solid and warm beneath his hands, and he runs his fingertips through the coarse hair that blankets McCree’s chest.

They kiss again, lying on their sides with their lips moving together in a leisurely exploration. It’s softer than any of the times before, although it’s no less intense. This one worms its way under his skin and fills his head with nonsense.

As long as it has been since he last slept with the same person twice, it’s been even longer since he kissed anyone like this or shared any real intimacy. That it is with a man as dangerous as Jesse McCree seems only fitting, given his own past.

McCree seems to have similar thoughts. He rolls Hanzo onto his back, mouth pressing more firmly before he breaks the kiss entirely. Their noses still brush and his breath puffs across Hanzo’s cheek when he says, “Tell me somethin’ true.”

He wants to freeze or to deny him. This has only worked so far because McCree has been content to know nothing about him, and because Hanzo’s research into him stopped at his name, bounty, and current location. He has never been with someone who knows intimately what his work entails without the burden of his past to interfere, and he worries now that it will ruin this thing he has grown so attached to with such a frightening speed. But McCree’s lips on his cheek and jaw and neck are persuasive, and they distract him from the clanging alarms in his own head, and he says, “I am afraid of drowning.”

McCree chuckles and calls him morbid, then he whispers that he is afraid of heights and of snakes, and the apprehension releases Hanzo from its grip.

They continue whispering confessions of inconsequential truths, and they kiss until his lips begin to feel bruised, until his neck feels wet from McCree’s mouth and McCree has sucked actual bruises into his collarbone and over his heart. He imagines this is what it might have been like to be a teenager if his adolescence was anything close to normal.

His patience can only last so long though. Eventually he pushes and flips them, and clumsy and drunk from too many kisses, he clambers atop McCree and sinks his teeth into his chest, licks a short stripe through the hair and clamps his lips around one nipple. When he reaches between them, stomach muscles tremble under his hand and he finds McCree’s cock hard and leaking. He smears his fingers through the liquid drooling from the tip, and he drags it down the length of McCree’s cock then sets to finding the precise rhythm to make McCree’s moan come shuddering out of his chest.

Metal fingers slide along the back of his arm before McCree is dragging him back up his body to fit their mouths together again and to shove his other hand between Hanzo’s legs. It’s less a kiss and more a shared gasp now, both of them too focused on other things.

McCree comes first, but only barely. Even while he is twitching and his grip stuttering in the aftershocks, he mutters, “C’mon, come for me,” against Hanzo’s lips, and Hanzo is helpless to deny him.

They’re both a mess, sticky with sweat and other things, but he can already feel his eyes growing heavy and does not want to move. When he drops his full weight onto McCree, he gets a tired laugh in return and the gentle pass of hard prosthetic fingers over the contours of his back.

He complains wordlessly when McCree nudges him off and again when the harsh light from the bathroom hits his eyelids, but he is grateful that one of them has the wherewithal to clean them up.

“Lazy,” McCree says with an unmistakable fondness to his voice.

“Am not.” It comes out almost slurred, and he is not entirely convinced he said it in English.

Belatedly, he hides his eyes in the crook of his arm to block out the light. When the damp cloth stops dragging over his skin, he can feel McCree’s fingers brush lightly over his tattoo, following the twisting body of the dragon. “Hell of a piece.” There’s something like a question in his voice, but Hanzo does not have the brainpower left to answer it. He only hums an affirmative, then the bed shifts with McCree’s weight and the light finally goes off again.

McCree gets him under the covers and climbs in beside him, then draws Hanzo toward him. It somehow figures McCree would be a cuddler, but Hanzo supposes he was the one who started it, so he has no right to complain.

Before he falls asleep, he’s almost certain he hears McCree mutter, “Shoulda known you were gonna be trouble.”

**Author's Note:**

> Update May 23, 2019: this fic now has [art!!](https://twitter.com/MIAnewarcher/status/1131347019673546753) on Twitter by [MIAnewarcher](https://twitter.com/mianewarcher)!
> 
> Title is lyrics from "Sway" by My Brightest Diamond, which Corvid sent me as inspo.
> 
> As always, nobody but me is responsible for McCree's bad taste in pseudonyms.


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